


When the World Stops Turning

by SweetVictory59



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetVictory59/pseuds/SweetVictory59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't learn to cope after Sherlock died. He couldn't when his entire life was buried in the ground, not breathing, heart not beating. He had nothing to live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock, or John, or any of the characters that happen to come up in the story. The BBC owns them and Arthur Conan Doyle of course. I'm just borrowing them and filling in blanks with my imagination.

John stared out the window, his hand resting on the scroll of Sherlock’s violin.

Oh how he missed the sound of Sherlock practising his bloody violin at three o’clock in the morning. He would allow Sherlock to play it all the time when he was trying to sleep if only he would come back. 

Bloody idiot. Why the hell would he jump off a building because everyone – except John, of course – had turned against him? Why did it bother him? He never cared about what people thought of him before then, what had changed?

John turned his thoughts to less depressing subjects and ran a finger thoughtfully along the bow to check if it needed more rosin – it did. His face creased as he tried to remember where he had left Sherlock’s rosin. It couldn’t be far.

 

It took him almost a week to find, as it happened.

Not that it had been far, John just didn’t really look that hard. He was far too busy doing stuff. He allowed himself a moment of guilt for being dishonest to himself – he had barely moved from the window all week. Other than kipping on the couch and occasionally reheating the dinners Mrs Hudson supplied, he hadn’t moved.

John stretched the kinks out of his neck and picked up the violin to play.

He wasn’t in any shape of form good, he was mediocre. He wasn’t exactly bad but he couldn’t claim he was any good either. 

He had only taken it up because he wanted to do something to honour Sherlock; something he could do that was so Sherlock that sometimes he could even kid himself that the man in question was the one playing. 

And John hated himself for it.

He should let Sherlock go, let him rest in peace, but he couldn’t. Sherlock had saved him, kept him from dying mentally and emotionally and Sherlock had been his friend when no one else would.

People looked at him and looked away again. He wasn’t tall – actually he was kind of short; he wasn’t brilliant like Sherlock, or mad like Moriarty. He wasn’t in command like Lestrade, or powerful like Mycroft. He was John Watson; an army doctor of average intelligence, no friends and nothing to live for.

Sherlock had taken away any motivation to live when he jumped off St Bart’s. He had taken every shred of John’s self-confidence, every shred of John’s being and he destroyed it, snuffed it out the moment he jumped. 

It killed John every day that he was so dependent on a man who was dead almost two and a half years. Eight-hundred and sixty-four days, to be precise. Sherlock used to love being precise.

John picked up a sheet of music; the last one Sherlock had worked on, and began to play.

Sherlock might have known he was going to die because the music was sad and depressing – and only half finished. John had gone through all the music Sherlock had written and put the songs in order of date. Then he had taught himself how to play violin by learning off those pieces, one by one and now he was at the end.

He supposed he could start again, get better at them, but it wasn’t the same. John had felt like he was saying hello to Sherlock every time he had begun a piece. To play them again was just like reliving the memories Sherlock had given him.

What about all the things John would have liked to say to his favourite consulting detective – the only one that had ever existed? John couldn’t continue Sherlock’s trade after the man had passed, he wasn’t clever enough, didn’t know as much as Sherlock.

 

The week passed and John had spent the last few days sitting around idly. 

The violin was in the corner, mocking him as it sat there gathering dust. John didn’t have anything to do. He couldn’t leave the flat, the thought of sunlight made him feel nauseous, he couldn’t play the violin, he couldn’t do any one of the numerous things he would have once done because Sherlock wasn’t there! He was bored. Sherlock used to be bored.

With a sigh he dragged himself to the kitchen to make tea. Noticing a page with a list of things hastily scribbled on it, he paused and picked it up. There was a clench in his stomach as he realized that it was Sherlock’s, that it was something Sherlock had left lying around almost two and a half years before hand.

John peered down and noticed it was a letter. Just a simple letter – more of a note really – explaining to John that he was going out and not to be worried. He picked it up and held it to his heart, unable to stop the tears that coursed down his cheeks. The tightness in his throat _hurt_ so badly and the trembling sobs coursed through his body as he slid down the fridge and howled out his pain. 

The kettle clicked but John didn’t notice. The paper crinkled and John did his best to smooth out the wrinkles that had appeared. Sherlock would do that to a page when he realized it wasn’t perfectly straight.

He sobbed harder, the pain catching him again as he picked out the small flick Sherlock had always done to the bottom of the ‘J’ in John. He had never done it to any other J’s and that was what made it special, that was what tore another hole in John’s heart.

“Sherlock, you _bastard_ , why did you have to leave me behind?” he yelled out to nobody. “Why did you leave me?” The questions poured out, each leaving John more hysterical than the rest until finally he stopped screaming. “Was I not important enough to you?” he whispered, the golf ball in his throat preventing him from being louder.

Mrs Hudson made her way cautiously into the kitchen. “John, dear,” she said quietly. She kneeled beside him and took his hand in one of hers. She was getting old, John thought silently. Her hands were more wrinkled than ever and her face was almost worse, none of her wrinkles were laughter lines anymore. John didn’t think she had laughed once since Sherlock passed away. Sherlock would have been proud of him for that deduction.

“It’s all right,” she said, dropping his hand to put both hands on his cheeks. “It’s okay, darling.” The tears continued pouring but they were silent now, he had barely enough energy to breathe, let alone smash things up like the roaring in his chest wanted him to do.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, the tears never ending their cascade. “Sorry to worry you Mrs Hudson.” He turned his face away from her, how could he face her when moments before the thought of taking his own life had been a very attractive thought? Sherlock had taken his own life.

Mrs Hudson sat back. “Oh I wish you would get out a bit, John. Do you think Sherlock would have wanted you to waste your life pining for him?” She hadn’t used Sherlock’s name against John – she had barely said the name Sherlock – since the man had died, but desperate times call for desperate measures and John was beyond desperate. 

John stared at her. 

“That isn’t fair, Mrs Hudson.” He couldn’t believe she was doing this to him. This was exactly the sort of guilt-trick Sherlock would use on him for tea, or so that John would go and get the shopping without arguing.

He sighed and picked himself up off the floor. “I’ll be going out now, Mrs Hudson.” She just smiled sadly. Aside from his trips to the graveyard, John hadn’t left the house since before Sherlock died. It used to bother him that he couldn’t leave the flat without Sherlock striding beside him but he had grown used to it in the years that had passed.

He made his way down to Angelo’s, hoping that Angelo himself wasn’t working. He would just fuss over John and make him feel worse. As he walked he felt people’s eyes glance at him and look straight through him. It was quite disconcerting that people could literally see and yet not be looking. 

As he walked, he imagined all the things that Sherlock would be saying to him had the man been there. The woman with the grey coat had two dogs, three kids and her husband worked late. The man with the limp had surgery on his hip three months previous and the cold was getting to him. Somehow John could even picture the smirk or sneer that would grace Sherlock’s face as he made these declarations. 

Sherlock would look at him then with that piercing gaze of his and ask him what he thought. John would usually get everything wrong, but it was okay because he could see the delight Sherlock took in helping him work on his non-existent deduction skills. Those rare occasions when John got something right were especially heart-warming because Sherlock would smile slightly and his eyes would be proud.

He slunk in to Angelo’s and seated himself in the very corner – it was hard not to be slightly paranoid when you had worked with Sherlock and the action was subconscious. He could see everyone and nobody would sneak up on him.

Angelo’s booming voice filled the small café when he spotted John. “John Watson!” he said, beaming. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” John smiled. 

“Angelo,” he said with a nod, “Just decided to drop in while I was out.” Angelo took his order with a dimmed smile and seated himself in front of John while they waited for the food.

He peered intently at John. “I know you haven’t left the flat properly in ages. I ask Mrs Hudson when she passes to do some shopping.”

John bowed his head. “It’s hard,” he murmured, his emotions were still whirring under his skin waiting for something to snap him into some sort of a breakdown.  
Angelo nodded seriously. “I understand. My wife died suddenly a long time back. You never really get over it.”

John raised his head, “We aren’t a couple.” The words were overused and carried little weight anymore. He merely said them on reflex nowadays. Then his eyes widened and he brought a hand to his mouth. “I mean we weren’t. We weren’t a couple.” The tears welled up in his eyes and he blinked them away furiously. He was a man. Men don’t cry and he had already broken that rule once that day, he wouldn’t be doing it a second time.

“It’s hard,” he repeated, this time with a thick voice. The cracks in his emotional barrier were beginning to break open. 

“I’m sorry,” he stood up suddenly, the memories rushing over him as he spotted the place where they had first been mistaken for a couple. “I shouldn’t have come here.” He dropped money onto the table and almost ran out. 

Angelo was left staring after the husk of a man that was John Watson. 

 

Hours passed and he simply wandered the city, his eyes picking out the spots he had been with Sherlock. He was a man living for and in the past. He could pick out almost every street in London and give a Sherlock-related memory. The time Sherlock had fell over a severed arm, when John had gotten sick and Sherlock had allowed him to puke in the bag Sherlock had assured him was both very valuable both in value and in sentimentality to the man. John hadn’t understood at the time why a plastic bag was so important but accepted it as one of the quirks of Sherlock. Sherlock had admitted later that he had lied so that John would try not to vomit again because he wasn’t sure how to treat a sick person.

He noticed the alleyway they had ran down when they were handcuffed together. It brought back a memory of the time Sherlock had pretended to be an undercover policeman. He told the man that he was arresting him for suspicion of murder when all they really wanted was information. Sherlock had taken out a pair of handcuffs he had lifted from Lestrade. 

John could still remember the self-satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face. John had felt quite proud of Sherlock – for reasons unknown, of course.

John had been overly proud of Sherlock and his accomplishments since day one. He had kidded himself over time that it was simply because the man was his best friend and the only real one John had ever had, but that was just John’s self-delusions. 

Now that he was back at the place where they had been cuffed together, John remembered the first time he had gotten the urge to kiss Sherlock. It had been after Sherlock had almost gotten himself killed by that cabbie.

Shooting the cab driver had been a piece of cake. It was like a whole new frame of mind and John had realized in that moment that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Sherlock. When Sherlock had come over, tugging on his blanket and claiming to be in shock, John had almost reached out and taken his hand. When Sherlock had walked away with him, smiling in the way he only did for John, he had almost pulled the man in for a kiss.

The last time he had felt the urge was when they were cuffed together in the alley he was in right now. Sherlock – impatient as he always was – had leaped over the gate leaving John on the other side. John had grabbed him through the bars and had a seriously hard time resisting the need to snog Sherlock.

It scared him. 

It really scared him. He didn’t understand where the urges came from. He had often heard of people falling in love with their partners because they had protected each other from being killed, but it was different somehow with John and Sherlock – at least it had been before Sherlock had gone and offed himself.

John could admit to himself that he had been sort of in love with Sherlock and that they had sort of been a couple. Not in the usual definition of the word, more of the sort of old married couple type relationship where they hadn’t felt the jealousy of new lovers who were sure that their other half was cheating on them, or the nervousness of a middle-aged couple who thought their partner would divorce them. It was the old love of a married couple in their eighties, not lusting after each other but bickering all the time in a completely affectionate way.

And John missed it so badly it hurt.

 

He was at the door, remembering the second time he had met Sherlock and the first time he had seen his new home, when Mrs Hudson opened the door and ushered him into her kitchen for tea.

“I’m glad you got out, John,” she said patting his hand. 

Perhaps she thought that he had done something productive? It wasn’t true; all he had done was relive the memories Sherlock had given him. This, to him at least, was both productive and counter-productive in its way.

“I realized something today, Mrs Hudson,” he said when the silence between them felt awkward even to him.

She perked up and John felt bad about how he had been treating her. Making her worry about him was terrible, she was an old woman, she deserved better.

“What was that, dear?” 

“I loved Sherlock,” he said grandly. It felt like some heavy burden was lifting off his shoulders. “That’s why I felt so horrid after he had gone. I didn’t understand it. I thought he was only my friend and my roommate and colleague. I feel better now that I understand why it hurts so much.”

Mrs Hudson’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh John,” she whispered, “You poor, poor dear.” She pulled him into one of the hugs she always felt he needed when he made some sort of a remark that seemed like he was healing even slightly.

“I’m fine Mrs Hudson. I really am.” And he was, sort of. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He put the cup he had been using in the sink and left Mrs Hudson’s to go up to his flat. Then he picked back up the note Sherlock had written and the pen that Sherlock had been the last to use. 

Then he sat down in Sherlock’s seat to pen the man a letter.

_Sherlock,_

_I suppose you’re up in heaven right now, you know if you believe in all that stuff. How’s life with the angels?_

_I don’t know why I’m writing this, only that it feels right. I know you probably won’t read this, but you should know some things that I never told you when you were alive.  
I suppose that you would rather a text instead of an old-fashioned letter and giving your infatuation with texting you would probably see this as an insult._

_I love you Sherlock. I really do. You have no idea just how horrid life is now without you. I don’t think you would, even if our situations were reversed. You wouldn’t have been as stupid as to let the grief consume you._

_At first I just sat my armchair and stared at yours._

_Every time I made a cup of tea for myself I made the mistake of making one for you too. Every time I had a bath I would wash out the tub just encase you had conducted some sort of experiment in there. I cringed every time I went to open the fridge just on the off chance you had acquired more body parts to dissect or whatever it was you did with them._

_Then after a while it hit me that you weren’t ever coming back. That I wouldn’t ever have to listen to you playing that damn violin at three in the morning, that I could sleep on in the mornings instead of getting up for a case, that I wouldn’t have to listen to you grumble about Mycroft or yell about Moriarty. That I no longer had any reason to live, that I no longer had a friend in the world._

_So then I took out your violin and taught myself to play. It was usually only at night seeing as you weren’t there to play at that time. After I got the hang of it a bit I gradually extended the time until I played all day when I wasn’t sleeping or drinking tea. I think Mrs Hudson managed to force me to stop to eat sometimes then, once or twice._

_That stopped after Mrs Hudson found me passed out from dehydration. A doctor would have to be stupid if he allowed himself to dehydrate, wouldn’t he? Mrs Hudson was so worried; she said I was just as bad as you when you were on a case. That made me both proud and disappointed at myself, it was bad, I suppose._

_So I played often after that, read all those ridiculous books you have and learned off the music you wrote. I left the flat every two or three days to visit your grave. It didn’t help much._

_Until today I hadn’t left the flat for anything other than that. Mrs Hudson found me when I was crying and guilt-tricked me into leaving. I didn’t do much except go to all the places I remember you from. It was hard to see that the world actually went on without you in it. For me it stopped._

_There isn’t much to tell you except I realized that after all we sort of were a couple. I suppose you’d tell me off if I told you that and say, “Sentiment is a terrible thing, John.” Or that you were above such dull, ordinary things._

_I really do love you. I’ve realized that it wasn’t as strictly platonic as I once would have insisted upon. I was quite thick, wasn’t I?_

_Anyway, come and see me if you actually get this. One thing I did learn with you is that no matter what the strangest thing you’ve seen is, stranger things can happen._

_Love,  
John._

He rifled through the drawers for an envelope and slipped the letter in gently. He would leave it on Sherlock’s grave tomorrow. For now he would make some semblance to dinner and have a shower before bed.

Sherlock always had to have a shower before he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock looked down on the body of the man he had just murdered.

Murder wasn’t really what he would have called it, however. He had shown himself to the man – assassin – in question so that he would attack him. That had meant that he could call it self-defence.

His stomach churned queasily as he peered down at the body. Though he was two and a half inches taller, a stone heavier and his hair wasn’t quite the right shade, the man looked remarkably like John. His nose was crooked and his accent had completely thrown Sherlock – he wasn’t like John in demeanour or in the way he spoke. 

He covered the body – despite the fact he knew that would tell who ever investigated this that he had regretted his actions. He didn’t regret killing the man; he just wished that he hadn’t compared John to this murderer. John was far too good to be anything like this man. 

Sherlock sneered slightly to himself. His sentiment towards John was getting him nowhere. It was pathetic and made him weak – perhaps once John was safe he would just disappear somewhere abroad. It would mean he didn’t have to face John, John’s disappointment and anger, or his affection for John. Everything came back to John.

He tightened the scarf around his neck and made sure that there was nothing there to incriminate him before he disappeared out of the alleyway.

 

When he went to the grave – the day John _always_ visited – the site was completely deserted. Sherlock spent the day there, simply waiting until darkness fell. He approached his grave cautiously and picked up the letter he saw there addressed to him.

He recognized John’s writing immediately and panicked that John had found out about Sherlock faking his own death. There was a single rose – painted black – days old sitting on top of the headstone. He tilted his head at the wave of recognition it brought over him, scanning through his thoughts to see what exactly had prompted the sudden spinning of his mind and the worry that came with it.

Moran. Sebastian Moran – Moriarty’s right hand man – had always left a rose behind when he took someone’s life. 

_John._

He barely remembered hailing a taxi and arriving at the flat. Mrs Hudson screamed when she saw him but he paid her no heed. “Where’s John?” he asked her, almost ripping his hair out when she focused on the fact Sherlock was alive not that John might be dead.

“I faked my death Mrs Hudson so that I might protect you, John and Lestrade. Can you tell me where John is?” He spoke impatiently but he wouldn’t let John die because of her inane questions, damn it!

Mrs Hudson sat down in the couch, hugging Sherlock to her side as she did. “Poor dear,” she whispered. “John,” she then verified. “He spent over two years locked in this place pining for you. I got him to leave the house a week ago. He came back after the first day. The second day he left very early and he still hasn’t come back. I did get a note, though. He pinned it to my door.”

She riffled in the pockets of her apron until she pulled out a sheet of cheap paper that had been ripped from a notebook. Not something John usually used, being more of a text or post-it man.

_Very happy, Mrs Hudson.  
A family member called  
To ask me about visiting.  
I don’t expect to be back soon.  
Could you show this to   
Anyone who comes calling –   
Not that I expect anyone to._

_Can’t predict when I’ll be back.  
Actually, don’t wait for  
Me. I don’t really  
Expect to be back soon.  
Oh, feed the dog,   
Sherlock is what I call her._

_John._

 

Sherlock looked down at the note and almost grinned. 

John, the sly bastard! The first letter in each line made up Vatican cameos – only something that the two of them would pick up on. Sherlock actually laughed despite the situation they were in. Feed the dog, a she-dog, therefore a bitch. He called Sherlock a bitch!

“Could you perhaps make me some toast, Mrs Hudson? John said to feed me unless…he didn’t really get a dog, did he?” Sherlock’s voice was trembling slightly and he looked quite horrified. 

“No,” Mrs Hudson said, patting his hand and getting to her feet. “I did wonder what he was talking about when he mentioned a dog. I suppose it’s some sort of code that you two made together.”

Smiling to himself, Sherlock answered her unspoken question. Mrs Hudson had always been far too curious for her own good. “No, not a code we made up. John had found out I faked my death – no doubt from Moran – and he was calling me names. Sherlock the dog he mentioned was a she. We all know what a she-dog is, Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Where’s he gone then?” she asked, far too quickly to be casual. She was starting to suspect something. Sherlock sighed. He didn’t really want to lie to her, but he didn’t want to worry her either. 

“He’s been kidnapped, I think, Mrs Hudson. Not to worry, I think I’ll be able to find them.” Sherlock would find his best friend, no doubt about it.

He pulled out the letter he had found by the headstone and ripped it open. Phrases swam through his mind. John loved him? He had learned to play the violin? He had allowed himself to dehydrate? What was his blogger playing at?

Sherlock looked for some hidden message in the letter but other than John confessing he fancied Sherlock – which really the man had already known – there was nothing. He turned the envelope over. 

Scratched into the envelope was code. A simple code, one everyone would know if they bothered to learn – Morse code.

_Dot, dash. Dash. Dash. Dot, dot. Dash, dot, dash, dot.  
Dot, dash, dash, dot. Dot, dash. Dash, dash, dot. Dot. Dot, dash, dot._

Attic. Pager.

Sherlock ran to the attic and searched through the attic systematically until he found the pager. Taped to it was a note – covered in dust and written a long time ago – that John had once wrote.

_Sherlock, the number below is belonging to a pager I’ll always keep on me encase someone like Moriarty tries to kidnap me again. Good luck with saving me! John._

Sherlock smiled wistfully at John’s attempt at light-heartedness. John would understand just how much he was panicking inside, whilst remaining as cool as ice on the outside of course.

And Sherlock was panicking. His heart thumped at an elevated rate, his mind was whirring as to where John was, his stomach roiled as he thought about the John’s fate. Perhaps Moran would kill him before Sherlock got the chance to play hero.

Then Sherlock wondered just how Sebastian Moran had found out that he was still alive. Clearly he must have noticed the fact that it was only Moriarty’s men that were suddenly cropping up dead but that wouldn’t have pointed to Sherlock alone – especially if Sherlock was presumed dead.

He paged John. _Where are you?_

The answer came after a whole thirty-seven minutes of waiting. John must have been knocked out, or busy with Moran. _Underground. I’m not sure where exactly but we headed south from Baker Street. I only came to about a half an hour ago._

So Moran had occupied him for a half an hour. It was likely that the ‘occupying’ he had done was torture, though Sherlock didn’t allow himself to think about that. He probably would break down if he did.

When the page came through Sherlock was immediately on his feet and heading out the door. “See you later, Mrs Hudson!” he called back to her. “Places to go, people to save – could you perhaps get some shopping? John seems to have neglected retrieving anything.”

Then he was out the door and disappearing into the crowded streets, hiding in plain view. Sherlock was a man on a mission and he had one person to aid him. He took out the cheap phone he had gotten a long time back. It was horrible to text on so Sherlock used it for calls. 

“Mycroft,” he said silkily down the line. “I expect you would be able to assist me with a problem that has cropped up.”

 

John was sitting in a dank underground tunnel that probably played host to people’s faeces – disgusting. His back ached horridly from the slouched position and the cold. His face was a battered mess – bloody, bruised and beaten. He supposed he should be grateful that his nose hadn’t broken. Something he detested was crooked noses. Sherlock’s – while being slightly bent – was a perfect specimen of a nose. 

John groaned silently – Moran was mere feet away – and spat out a mouthful of blood. The beating he had taken was clearly messing with his head. He had chained his non-platonic thoughts for his best mate and had locked them up in a room buried so deeply in his mind that he thought they wouldn’t have ever been a problem again.

John peered down at the criss-cross of cuts decorating his leg from knee to ankle. They were almost surgically straight and John allowed them to form a spiralling staircase for his thoughts to run rampant on. 

“Should I send Sherlock a clue yet?” Moran asked, his voice echoing loudly, shattering the silence that had stretched over the location like a plaster over a cut.

John glared at him out of his one good eye. “I’m sure he’s gleaned a sufficient amount of information from your mistakes and is currently waiting outside for the perfect moment to strike.” It was something that Sherlock would have said and John pretended to himself that it was the man calling it out from his hiding place.

Moran scowled. 

“I thought I mentioned that you should keep your mouth shut,” he had a strange voice. The inflections were odd, his consonants sounding a little too flat – and there was no life in his words.

John smirked – not that he was positive it would look like a smirk, beatings tended to make your gestures look wonky. “You asked for my opinion. I just thought you ought to know that it’s Sherlock Holmes you’re facing. This man is such a genius that he has hidden the fact he is alive from everyone including me.”

Moran pulled out a pocket knife, seemingly from nowhere, and he and John tested out just how loudly the doctor could scream.

 

When Sherlock found them Moran was crouched over John, engraving words on his skin with a knife so sharp that it was probably a surgical blade. 

John was screaming hoarsely, his throat was raw from all the crying out he had had to do previously. Sherlock fired towards Moran only for the man to skitter out of the way just before he shot. 

“Mr Holmes,” he said his voice mockingly polite. “How strange that I would see you in such a low-class establishment such as this! I expected more from the world’s only consulting detective.”

Sherlock sneered. “What do you want, Moran?”

The man’s face twisted up into an ugly mask of hatred. “I wish to steal from you what you stole from me – a lover.”

Sherlock tilted his head and observed the man. “You believe you loved him,” Sherlock stated. “Tricky little thing, sentiment. It could make you the perfect killer, stronger than everyone else or it could make you so weak that you would give up without a fight.” 

Moran growled. “I loved him, all right. Just like you love John Watson,” he kicked John absentmindedly with the toe of his boots and glared at Sherlock. “You should understand how it feels to watch a lover die.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “John is not my lover. You’ve been misled if that is what you think. We’re not involved with each other that would be highly unethical.”

“A best friend then,” Moran said but his voice didn’t hold the conviction it once had. “Jim was more to me than John Watson will ever be to you.”

An almighty BANG rang through the underground tunnels. Moran’s facial expression changed to one of immense shock before he collapsed to the ground dead.

John’s face was disturbingly pale when Sherlock reached him. Covered in a sheen of sweat, his lip almost bitten in half with the effort it cost him, John held the gun in wavering hands – his strength was weakening.

“John,” Sherlock whispered frantically, hands catching the man as he went to fall back to the ground. Sherlock kissed his forehead and his nose, he peppered kissed all over the man’s face until a moan of pain told Sherlock that John wasn’t quite as well as he appeared to be.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he said, gathering the man into his arms and hauling him out to the fresh air. The man was thinner than he had once been, almost emaciated, and the gun he had held tightly clattered to the ground when Sherlock heaved him up. 

The night sky was starry and clear. 

John’s voice came out whisper thin when he eventually gathered the strength to speak. “Sherlock,” he said, and his eyes flickered towards the sky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

John closed his eyes and Sherlock – feeling slightly better now that John wasn’t staring at him – kissed the man’s lips lightly. Their first kiss, as it was, was ruined by the fact that John completely passed out near the end.

His last thought was that he had probably bled out like in all the suicide scenarios he had planned when his longing to be with Sherlock overrode his will to live. When Sherlock had ‘died’ there had been a lot of blood and a crying resident of 221B, Baker Street. Why should John’s death be any different?

Then there was the fading sound of ambulance sirens before the comforting numbness of unconsciousness. Sherlock would have probably welcomed the darkness – had he actually died that time.


	3. Chapter 3

Going to the hospital with John was a very stupid idea. 

Sherlock was supposed to be dead so when Lestrade came into the hospital room the next day it was understandable that he shrieked – in a manly way, he would later claim – and yell for security. It was unsavoury, but Sherlock had to spend the next hour explaining where he had been. Naturally he hadn't mentioned the murders he had committed though he was sure Lestrade had guessed.

"Have you any idea what John went through while you were gone?" Lestrade asked him finally capable of speaking after Sherlock's explanation.

He shifted uncomfortably. "He was sad; understandable given the case."

The DI glared. "Sad!" he hissed, "Sad? The man was completely torn apart. He spent two years in the flat reliving all his bloody memories of you, day in and day out. He was hospitalized more than once, he only ever left to go to your empty grave; he told me that he had considered killing himself – Sherlock do you not understand? He's supposed to be your best friend."

Sherlock's lip twitched, his eyebrows drew together and he turned his head away so that Lestrade would not see the tears in his eyes. Even when his shoulders shuddered he kept up the pretence of indifference. John was the only one who would ever see him break down.

"He's a doctor," Sherlock said, though the words from John's letter to him echoed around in his head. "He knows just how to deal with grieving people. It's likely he was conducting an experiment as to how long it would take him to heal." The wobble in his voice did not go unheard. Lestrade knew him well enough not to mention it.

Lestrade wasn't a hard man. He wasn't especially good with feelings and the like, but he was a damn sight better than Sherlock. He understood what the other man was going through, despite the fact that Sherlock was near inhuman with regards emotions.

He could see the tell-tale sign of a breakdown – his hands were shaking, actually shaking! – he couldn't seem to form coherent thoughts – that was evident from the way his eyes were glazed; perhaps emotion truly did slow down this man. The worst part about how he was reacting was his eyes and breathing.

His eyes were fixed on John, a steady fall of tears leaking from those blue-green eyes. Greg had seen Sherlock when he was shockingly down but he had never seen anything remotely like tears in his eyes. 

Anger he could deal with; frustration, boredom, demeaning. Sadness, tears and pain were way out of his league. Way out of anyone's league with Sherlock – with the exception of John. John would calm him and reassure him if he was well and conscious.

And the swelling of his chest with every breath was erratic. He breathed like one would to calm a panic attack – but Sherlock couldn't have a panic attack, he was unbelievably strong and emotionless, right? He breathed like a man who wasn't sure if their next breath would be denied. Deep, gasping breaths, but silently. Sucking in the air with irregular timing, but always there, always going.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure just how long he sat there staring at John, willing him to wake. He was vaguely aware of their surroundings; Lestrade's harsh breathing (chest infection, possible pneumonia), the patter of the nurses coming in and urging him to go home ("Mr Watson will be fine with us. He would probably want you to go and get some rest."), the beeps and whirring the machines around John emitted. 

And John.

John just sat there motionless, frail beyond belief and dying.

NO! He wasn't dying! He would live; he had just had a nasty injury.

Time stretched out beyond comprehension. 

"You know, if he was awake right now he would say "Go and eat something, Sherlock. You're far too thin; anorexia isn't a good look on consulting detectives." He always did try to be funny."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock acting human wasn't an everyday occurrence and Greg wasn't sure how to deal with it. He didn't need to figure it out because Sherlock was speaking again.

"If we had ended up back together without the whole kidnapped thing I think he would have punched me. Only this time it would have been without permission."

He made a noise. "Without permission? When did you give John permission to punch you?"

Sherlock smiled his mind a million miles away. "Back with The Woman, Irene Adler. We were trying to get into her house and I had him punch me so I could pretend to have been mugged." He remained pensive for a moment before snorting and saying, "Vatican cameos. Bloody Vatican cameos."

He didn't understand what Sherlock was referring to so he kept quiet. John would deal with him when he awoke.

 

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, his head buzzing distractingly. 

Sherlock was out of his doze and by John's side within moments.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked his best mate. "Can I get a nurse for you?" His hands flitted from John's forehead to his hand and towards the drip line. 

"You bastard," John said, eyes focussing on Sherlock. "You bloody bastard. What were you thinking? What possessed you to go on without asking for help? You know I would have done anything for you. Why did you go?" The vehemence in John's voice was startling; Sherlock should have known that he would be angry.

He brushed John's hair back from his face – the man mustn't have had a hair cut in months – and cradled his hand. "I had to, John. Moriarty, he had you at gunpoint even though you weren't aware. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have died had I not jumped."

John blinked at him blearily, taking a moment to process that information. "But after, you should have come to me. I could have helped Sherlock – would have helped. Do you know how hard it was?" He sounded defensive now. 

"Do you know how many times a day my heart shattered because I was suddenly struck by a memory of you? How many times I cried myself to sleep? How many times I wondered just how worthless I was to you. Every single day, Sherlock. Every moment of every day I wondered if my friendship wasn't enough, if it was worthless just like how I thought people's opinions of you were. I wondered why my trust and belief didn't outweigh the disbelieve of others? It hurt Sherlock. Every time I breathed I was reminded of the fact you weren't breathing. I would see my gun in the drawer or on the table and I would wonder if perhaps I should just kill myself too. Kill myself because it was so hard to live without you – I had nothing to live for."

John trembled after his tirade. The emotions, the isolation of two and a half years of anguish, weren't easy to express, to put into words. 

Sherlock understood (He always did. Why was John still surprised by that?) and he kneeled on the bed to settle in beside him, John's hand clasping his for reassurance.

"It was hard for me too," Sherlock whispered after a tense silence developed between them. The raw emotion in his voice made John shut up and listen.

"Every day I worried that they would find out I was alive and go after you. Every day I wondered if you were okay, how you were getting on and if I'd ever see you again."

Sherlock took a deep breath. Telling John how he had felt all along was harder than he would have expected. Thoughts like that were terrifying and he had no experience with them. "I used to go to the graveyard when you did, I missed a couple of visits but I was there usually. When you didn't turn up last time I was worried and went to find you."

John bit his lip; Sherlock could tell he was wondering about the letter – the one he had thought that he wouldn't get. "I got your letter," he mumbled. John froze.

"Oh," he said. 

"Yes," he continued. "I really am sorry for abandoning you." John relaxed slightly but the tension was still there. 

John nodded curtly. Sherlock reckoned that the man had already forgiven him. "What happened to Moran?" he asked suddenly. 

Sherlock allowed one side of his mouth to quirk up into a grin. "You shot him, John." 

John swore. "I thought I had been delusional, that what happened had been a by-product of the torture."

Sherlock saw through his explanation. An unfamiliar tender smile made home on his face. He leaned a little closer to John and pressed a kiss to his temple. "You were worrying about how I had reacted," Sherlock stated softly. 

John nodded, though it wasn't a question, blushing quite darkly. This was uncharted waters for the doctor. He supposed that he was bisexual, not quite as straight as he had claimed to be.

"Sherlock…" his voice trailed off, he wasn't sure how exactly he was to broach the topic with his detective.

"Not to worry, John. I am aware of the extent of your feelings and you should know by now that they are reciprocated – to the extent that I am capable of, however." Sherlock would never admit how he blushed and felt unconfident at that moment. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't ever unconfident.

John beamed at him and, with an inordinate amount of wincing, shuffled into Sherlock's arms with a barely there kiss on the cheek.

John was happy.

Sherlock was happy.

They were in a love that neither of them had ever hoped would happen to them. They couldn't have ever been as lucky as that, right?

John smiled as he settled down. The world – his world, he supposed – had started turning again. The happiness that followed that melodramatic thought was worth all the pain he had suffered through; all was right once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'm going to bring Sherlock back. You guys could let me know what you think I should do!


End file.
